Gallows
by azurelacroix
Summary: The second installment after Scars. I don't know how many more I'm going to do, but this could go on. Possibly will get Rrated as this goes on.


_Tyger, Tyger, burning bright..._she couldn't remember the rest of the poem.

Clarice Starling pulled on the dainty, uncomfortable looking Gucci sandal, and stared down at it for an entire minute before returning her gaze to the full length mirror on the closet door. The person reflected back at her held very few vestiges of ex-Special Agent Starling.

Conditioning, blow drying and styling her hair had taken the better part of an hour. Applying makeup had taken the worse part. The purchase of the dress, shoes and wrap had taken a toll on her wallet.

Albeit, they were lovely things, the dress a cream coloured satin, with a neckline comprised of gracefully plunging folds. The sandals were a similar colour, with strap laces that wrapped around her ankles. As she lifted the white velvet wrap around her shoulders, she recalled a time long ago, a conversation had in the cab of a dented pickup truck, somewhere in West Virginia.

"_Remember, Clarice, stay inside the house until I get back. Right, darlin'?"_

"_Right, daddy. Why d'you gotta be so mindful, though? I read at school that mountain lions are more afraid of you than you are of them."_

"_Well, 'cause this one don't seem to be_ _actin' quite like a proper lion. Don't shy when it should, been killin' Hiram Jones' sheep stock."_

"_If it's only killin' sheep_, _why do I gotta stay inside?"_

"_Well, like we say about thieves and bandits, Clarice, if they break one rule, they won't be havin' much qualms about breaking them all. Asides, this one is smart, it might take us all night to catch him."_

"_How are you gonna catch him, daddy?"_

"_Don't precisely know. Lions are natural hunters, so we best be doing the unexpected, lest it knows we're a-comin'."_

Her father's Appalachian wisdom, while now a curiosity, was failsafe. If she wanted to hide in plain sight, she would have to remove as much no-nonsense personality from her appearance as possible. The woman staring back in the glass, with artfully curled auburn locks, dusky, sleepy eyes, and a sensuous pink mouth was decidedly not Clarice Starling, but a carefully painted disguise. Clarice reached over, dialled the motel desk, and ordered a blacktop cab. She descended down from the second level of the two story building, made a graceful entry into the back of the taxi, and was met with the typical query.

"Where to?"

"The Opera."

Nighttime Vancouver was frigid, and snow had started to fall. Innocent and light at first, Clarice was confident that it would soon thicken into a blizzard. As the cab raced down the highway, she couldn't help but recall the events of the previous month, in rich detail and full, living colour.

"_Where are we?"_

_That was the first question that came to her lips as she recovered her faculties. Slowly at first, but then more rapidly, the world came into focus. She found herself arranged on a sizable bed, though thankfully still in the clothes she had last remembered being dressed in. The floor seemed to waver just slightly as she set her foot down, but she felt no nausea, nor any disorientation. The room she found herself in was quite a beautiful one, but there was a certain modernness to it that left her cold. It had no personal touches whatsoever, its wood panelled walls and republican standards of beige, cream and tan were imminent in the decoration. One glance through the windows confirmed her suspicions. A boat, and a rather large one, appeared to be her prison. She searched herself for her weapons, and found none. However, there were a few things in the room that could be turned towards violence. Candle sticks, vases, and best of all, an antique harpoon gun mounted on the wall just over the head of the bed. Clarice stepped onto the bed, and inspected it carefully. She considered taking it down and going straight up to the deck with it, but then decided against it. Wits, and not brute violence, would be the key to solving this situation. As she climbed off the bed, a voice from the semi-darkness startled her._

"_Very good, Clarice. But then, you were never one to take the path of least resistence, were you."_

_She spun around. Hannibal Lecter leaned idly against a dresser, looking quite comfortable in a black silk button down shirt and matching slacks. He lifted a slim black cigarette to his mouth and took a deep inhale, cool unblinking eyes sparkling with a hint of tease. _

"_Why didn't you drug me again, Dr. Lecter?" Clarice asked as frankly as she could manage. _

_He was silent for a beat, crossing the floor with lazy strides. Pausing, he smiled down at her. _

"_You've been wearing those clothes for three days. There's a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt in the head, I suggest you take a shower."_

_With that, he made his way up the small set of stairs and out the hatch to the upper deck._

_Clarice fumed for a moment, and then lifted the collar of her shirt to her nose. She winced slightly, and, deciding to put pride aside for the moment, made her way to the head._

_The ship's bathroom was cramped, but larger than expected. There was sufficient room to move around in the shower, which was thankfully stocked with shampoo, conditioner, and french soap. Clarice was grateful for this. Despite the removal of her filthy clothes, the metaphysical feeling of uncleanliness had increased ten fold. The water was hot and clean, washing away the filth of the last few days. As she lathered her hair, her thoughts wandered from the present time back to the house on Dungeness Spit. Her decision to give herself up had been both painful and terrifying, but at the same time, she felt a curious kind of relief as she relinquished herself over to this man, this killer. He who knew her so well, who dominated her thoughts in her empty hours. _

_She had forgotten that the greatest risk in her hunt was being captured herself. The water was starting to get cold. Clarice wondered for a moment about the water stock aboard, but then remembered she didn't really care all that much. She towelled herself dry, and pulled on the dry clean clothes. The t-shirt was a predictable black, made of some expensive blend. The jeans were also of high quality, perfectly cut and sized. It made her uncomfortable to think Hannibal Lecter was familiar enough with the shape of her body to pick out jeans for her. But then, he had broken into her house, switched around her phone batteries and calmly measured her feet while she had slept, oblivious. _

_Clarice gathered up her old clothes and stuffed them into a hamper that had been set behind the door. Digging under the sink, she found a bag of women's scrunchies. She wondered who this boat belonged to, or used to belong to. Was it unwillingly commissioned, or was it just another one of Dr. Lecter's many failsafes? The FBI had frozen what assets they could find, but for a man of Lecter's brilliance, amassing fake identities and rigging Swiss bank accounts were simple feats._

_Twisting up her wet hair in a messy bun, she turned and made her way through the master bedroom to the main living room, where a spiral staircase was situated. She climbed until she reached the door that read 'bridge'. _

_In the captain's seat, Lecter was relaxing at the helm, a cup of coffee in his hand. Clarice almost laughed. Seeing Lecter with something as banal as coffee was almost surreal. She made her way over to the first mate's chair, a thick leather appointment, and sat down. _

"_Now, that's better, isn't it." Lecter drawled as he toyed with the helm, staring through the tinted windows at the expanse of slightly choppy ocean. _

"_Where are we?"_

"_Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Far from the 'civilized' world and all those institutions you try so desperately to preserve."_

_Clarice examined the long dashboard, studying the unfamiliar instruments. A silver logo emblazoned the centre- A small crown with the word 'Princess' beneath it. Beneath that was P25M, which she guessed must be the class of ship. _

"_Did you kill someone for this, Dr. Lecter?" Clarice asked in an undertone. He traced the lip of his coffee mug thoughtfully and regarded her._

"_No. This was part of the Bath Estate. I merely changed the name. It was one of those grotesque little pun names, before, 'College Fund', or something similar."_

"_What did you name it?"_

"_Charon."_

"_The ferry man, on the river Styx."_

"_Very good, Clarice," He punched the anchor control, and Clarice could hear the hydraulics working, and the clank of the winch as the anchor dropped down into the water with a splash. _

"_I've prepared dinner. It's waiting for us in the dining room, though I thought you would prefer to eat on the fly deck."_

"_I don't even know what the hell a fly deck is."_

_Lecter swiped the key from the ignition and deposited it in his pocket. He opened one of the bridges's side doors, letting in a flood of sunset. Clarice pursed her lips and stepped past him into the light, trying to ignore the gaze on her back._

_She found the fly deck, an open space with a modest little table and booth at one end, and a miniature version of the dash on the other. She sat down at the already set table and looked out at the sinking sun as it illuminated a tall purple boil of cumulus cloud. The dying light had cast an orange glow over everything, and she felt that she must be in some kind of between-world, where things were as nonsensical as a Dali painting. She was still staring at the light when Lecter reappeared, holding two steaming platters. Blinking away the glare, she watched as he lifted off the lids without delay, revealing Alaskan king crab legs, and seafood alfredo. Unbidden, a wave of hunger rose, and Clarice's mouth began to water. Patiently he dished out portions, pausing to unearth a fine bottle of Krug champagne from a cooler recessed under the table. _

_Starving, but mindful of her grandmother's strict dinner table conduct, she took the linen napkin and put it over her lap before folding her hands and waiting until Lecter's serving ritual had been completed. When he had finally seated himself, she seized the fork and spoon, twirling the alfredo around the tines before lifting it to her mouth. It was, of course, excellent. _

"_You never answered my question, Clarice," Lecter said softly as he began to break one of the crab legs. Clarice hastily swallowed the bite that was in her mouth._

"_Which?"_

"_The lambs, of course. But we can talk about that later, if you wish," he nodded towards her plate, lips parted as his eyes followed her fork up to her mouth. "How is it?"_

"_Very good." she answered without looking at him. _

"_And the champagne?"_

"_Very expensive."_

"_But how does it taste. Be honest now." The last words were drawn out, hissed and sensual. The sibilance made a chill race of her spine, and she was trembling as she lifted the glass to sample the bubbling liquid._

"_Crisp, and sharp. But bittersweet," she closed her eyes, as the flavour danced across her tongue._

"_Like a fall day on the firing range. Gunshots loud and clear, I expect. Did they echo, Clarice, like an alto at the end of the libretto?"_

"_I don't know. I've never been to the opera." Suddenly she wasn't hungry. Forsaking good manners, she stood up and moved around the table. "I think I need to lie down."_

_Lecter dipped his finger into his glass flute, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he sucked the champagne off his fingertip._

"_Whatever you think is best, Clarice."_

_She hurried through the bridge to the main cabin. The living area and galley were full stocked with a bar, a dining table, and a spiral staircase that must lead to the bedroom area. Quivering with the need to do something desperate, she glanced around for a weapon. Nothing but brandy bottles and glasses. She dashed up the staircase and found the second state room where she had woken up. Climbing onto the bed, she seized the harpoon gun from the wall and examined it, searching for the basic mechanics of any firing weapon. _

"_Ah," Lecter's voice startled her, and she spun around, hefting the gun. "So you _are_ going to shoot me after all."_

"_I don't want to have to shoot you," Clarice said, the twang of the old accent returning. "But if you don't do exactly as I say, I will."_

"_Oh, I don't know about that," Lecter drawled, mimicking her accent. It had the expected effect, making her wither inside. "You really are quite _delectable_ when you're flushed, Clarice."_

_He moved closer, and she pulled back the catch, lips tight. _

"_Stop it."_

"_Are you going to shoot me, ex-special agent Starling? Does the idea of me with my blood blossoming across the carpet appeal to you?" he hissed, pressing forward."Though, you did rather enjoy putting lead into those unsavoury Sardinians."_

"_Stop it!" it was more of a plea, this time. A desperation in her voice that couldn't be suppressed. Her shoulders shook as he walked forward, letting the tip of the harpoon press against his chest. _

"_Stop what, Clarice? Stop telling you how beautiful you are when you're determined to justice upon us poor sinners? You are, you know, with that strand of hair clinging to your lip." _

_She immediately brushed her hair away from her face. He smiled. _

"_Dr. Lecter, I'm going to ask you one more time. Desist and you can walk out of this alive-"_

"_Oh, and if I resist, I'll never walk again, isn't that how it goes? Do they teach you those old west idioms at the bureau or did you learn them watching television with your daddy?"_

_She hesitated just long enough. Lecter seized the barrel of the harpoon gun and flung it aside, closing the distance between them in a matter of milliseconds. His strong arms came to rest on her shoulders, his face inches from hers as she closed her eyes, the terrifying intimacy making her knees weak. _

"_Are you waiting for the opportune moment, Clarice?" he whispered harshly, lips a fraction of an inch from hers. "You're not inebriated like before. It's all up to you."_

_Her eyes were shut tight, lips parted exquisitely. She could feel his voice slipping across her skin as he spoke his poisonous words._

"_At the orphanage, in your adolescent years, you used to watch the old film noir movies and even now you wish to have a lover go at your neck with all the same passion and fire, all the violence. Don't you. Tell me. _Tell_ me."_

_She was silent, but then spoke, her voice a bare rasp._

"_Yes...but always with Humphrey Bogart. Never with you."_

_When those powerful jaws clamped over her throat, she let out a small, soft cry. They didn't bite down, but worked at her tense muscle, tongue slithering over her racing pulse. Her breath came faster as a familiar flash appeared, the harpy drawing a line down the front of her shirt. The expensive material fell away as Lecter's mouth moved down lower, teeth dragging across the exposed top of one breast. Her spine bent as his arm circled and tightened around her lower back. She felt her body press against the wall, unaware of having taken steps back. _

"_Why aren't you stopping me, Clarice?" Lecter mocked, returning from his sojourn by her breast and kissing her jaw with needling tenderness. "Is it because you've denied yourself such contact for so many years? Is it loneliness?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Do you want me to stop?" he was serious now, eyes boring into hers. They flickered down to her parted lips as he traced his finger across them. _

"_I don't know, please...don't..I can't.." her words were cut short as he silenced her with his mouth, tongue slipping between her lips. Sagging into his arms, Clarice gave in, letting her tongue respond, tasting the champagne on his lips. He manoeuvred her to the bed, breaking the kiss so he could draw his tongue along the underside of her ear, and down her jaw. She whimpered slightly, fingernails worrying at his back. Smiling patiently, he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt. Clarice brushed his hands away and finished the job herself, pushing away the shirt, her hands travelling over a body well muscled, dusted slightly with white chest hair. Hands capable of breaking her spine wandered up her curves, stripping away her bra. She could feel sweat forming on her upper lip as Lecter's tongue travelled around the underside of one breast. He hooked his fingers in her belt loops and stared up at her with countenance of a lion drinking from a pool. She looked away, and he deftly undid her pants, drawing them down her long legs while depositing kisses across her hips. She thought for a moment about how easy it would be to get her legs around his neck, twist..._

_No. She wasn't strong enough. He was going to have her, here and now, and there wasn't anything she could do about it. She cast her mind around, trying to find a reason to resist and finding none. Lust and agony had blanked out any logical thought. She used her hands to unzip his slacks, and her feet to push them down his hips. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and he stroked her face. _

"_Did you think about killing me, Clarice?" he breathed huskily into her ear, poised to enter her. "Don't...lie."_

"_Yes."_

_She bit deep into her lip and drew blood as he thrust into her, one rapid buck of his hips. His quick, red tongue flickered across her mouth, licking up the crimson residue. Her legs tightened around him as he picked up the pace, moving hard and fast now. She wouldn't, couldn't look at him, couldn't watch him as he made love to her. _

Made love

_That was too human, too affectionate a term. _

Fucking.

_Couldn't watch as he fucked her. Lecter grasped her chin, tongue wandering across her skin. Her eyes were still shut tightly. _

"_Look at me, Clarice. _Look at me!_"_

"_Dr. Lecter, please-"_

"_Look at me and call me by my given name," he growled in his rusted steel voice. _

_Her eyes opened. _

"_Hannibal," she breathed, voice full of hateful weakness. The tension snapping through her lower half had increased ten fold. His thumb depressed her lower lip as he lifted her chin, covering her mouth with hers. For a moment they shared breath, and then Clarice felt the tension bridge, forcing her body to arch. Lecter's arms tightened around her, and she could hear the slow, sibilant gasp, so similar to the sound of the last breath._

Like the girl with the moth in her throat.

_At that moment she could have died, could have stopped breathing. All life had gone from her limbs, and perfect relaxation came over her body. But her lungs didn't deflate, and there was Hannibal Lecter, kissing her heartbeat through her skin, tasting its thrum with the tip of his tongue. _

_After a moment's pause, he rolled over onto his back, body slicked with sweat. Clarice's fogged eyes snapped open. She sat up as the shock of what had just occurred hit her. She winced as Lecter's hand stroked across the curve of her back. She felt him shift as he sat up behind her, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her neck._

"_You're so perfect, Clarice, do you know that? Conflicted, moral, and...deadly," he purred into her ear, his hands drawing over her skin. "How could I not adore you."_

"_This doesn't change anything," Clarice said in a strangled voice. A sob threatened to rise up through her throat, but she suppressed it._

"_Of course, why would it?" Lecter replied conversationally. "It is simply the consummation of what has been there for quite some time."_

"_What is that, exactly, Dr. Lecter?"_

"_I think by now you've earned the right to call me by my first name," he said softly, slipping from behind the bed and making his way over to the small bar. She watched him, eyes wandering over his naked form as he poured himself a glass of scotch. _

"_What has been there for some time...Hannibal?" It felt strange to say his given name. When he was 'Dr. Lecter' she could put him at a distance, keep it formal. 'Hannibal' was painfully intimate. He watched her for a moment over the rim of his glass, and then tilted his head. _

"_During our little adventure on the Verger estate. The bullet you took. When I lifted you into my arms and you let your head fall against my chest, I knew then that letting you die would be..."_

"_Rude?"_

"_In addition to making my life rather uninteresting. Certainly, we are nemeses in the technical sense of the term. But we have more than that, don't we, Clarice?"_

"_Back in Baltimore," Clarice pulled the sheet up to her neck. "You didn't talk to me just because you wanted me sexually...did you?"_

"_Oh, I did want you, but that was completely separate from our equation. I am a man, Clarice, with desires like any man. The scent of a woman after eight years was intoxicating. But then you started to speak and I wanted your _soul _more than your body. The body may make a fine meal, but a soul so rare and pure...divine ambrosia." _

_As he spoke, Lecter poured another glass of scotch, and offered it to her. Clarice accepted, gulping down the alcohol as quickly as she could manage. It stung her throat, and made her eyes prick with tears, but it felt good. Cleansing. She set the glass down. Lecter eyed her for a moment, before returning to the bed. Kneeling, relaxed behind her, he dipped a finger into the scotch, knowing she could feel his eyes on the back of her neck. Slowly, he drew a line across one shoulder blade with the liquid, watching it drip slowly across her skin._

"_You would let me have your body, Clarice. But you would never let me have your soul. It's banal to say that's part of why I crave it so much, but then you are a part of me as much as I am a part of you. Who would we be without each other, hm?" He leaned in and licked the alcohol off her back, causing her to shiver, then rested his cheek against her thoughtfully. "I would still be trapped in a cell in Baltimore...and you would still be working for the FBI. Probably still trying to find our friend Billy. Tell me, how did he smell after you'd _perforated_ him? Did the scent of his putrid soul sour in your nostrils?"_

"_I couldn't smell anything. I was breathing too hard." Clarice spotted a black bathrobe on the door handle. She got up, and put it on. "I feel like I need a cigarette. I haven't smoked since I was in high school."_

_Lecter got up and opened a few of the tinted windows. The last vestiges of the sunset had disappeared, leaving behind a massive canvas of blue-black, stars dusting every square inch. Even in the wilderness of Virginia, she had never seen such a riot of celestial bodies, each twinkling its own song. Quietly he offered her one of his black clove cigarettes, which she contemplated for a moment before accepting. Flicking open a stainless steel lighter, he lit it for her as she stared out into the sparkling abyss. Taking a drag, Clarice exhaled a curl of smoke, her lungs and throat easily remembering the procedure. Lecter pulled the bathrobe away from her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her skin, smiling because he knew it would incense her. _

_At the same time, a hundred and twenty seven miles away, Blanch Landaugh felt the cool water of Vancouver's filthy Trout Lake begin to numb her swollen flesh. When it started to trickle down her throat, slowly filled her lungs, she was grateful._

Halfway through the opera, Clarice's cell phone went off, its silent buzzer vibrating in her purse. Fortunately this disturbed no one, as she had sprung for a private box lest the crowds below impede the progress of her search.

The indications that Dr. Lecter was still in Canada were good. The indications that he was in Vancouver were even better. The Bath estate was far flung, much of it unrecorded. Lecter had done his research well before the FBI took an interest in his personal doings, and had destroyed the records. But discussions with Frances Bath's old lawyers revealed a few marginal clues that she hoped to exploit. Her hunt was given FBI authorization, but she could expect very little backup. They provided her with a temporary ID, called the Canadian embassy and got approval for her top-secret mission.

So when the phone rang, Clarice was forced to abandon her scan of the audience and answer it.

"Investigator Starling? This is Captain Running Wolf of the RCMP. I'm sorry to interrupt, if I'm blowing your cover, feel free to hang up."

"No, Captain, you're not. What can I do for you?"

"We've just uncovered a body and we were told to alert you if there were any unusual homicides, and this one...well..."

"Yes?"

"Ma'am, I've been on the force twenty five years, and I've never seen anything like this."

"Can I get an address? I'll be right over."

"We're on the north side of Trout Lake, not too far from Commercial drive."

Dr. Lecter smiled to himself as he watched her leave. Her attire had been a pleasant surprise this evening. Although she was oblivious to the fact that he was tracking her, he preferred to believe she had dressed for him. The idea of running his hands over that expensive Pegah Anvarian dress and pulling apart its intricate folds made his mouth water, but he was more interested to see what the phone call would bring. As she caught a cab back to the Surrey motel, Lecter patiently followed in his black Jaguar XK coup. It was an easy feat to wait ten minutes while she changed out of her designer camouflage and into sturdy jeans and t-shirt, bringing along a respectable looking trench coat to combat the evening's plummeting temperature. As much as he had liked seeing those auburn locks gleam, and inhaling the scent of her perfume, it was comforting to see her slide that gun in into its holster. Knowing she could kill him with a bullet and wasn't morally capable of doing so made pursuing her an even more paradoxical. He wondered, vaguely, what lay ahead for her. Perhaps the local authorities had uncovered someone's latest art project. He filed the possibility in his mind and let the car slip slowly out of the driveway, following the black rented Saab as it tore down the highway.

Clarice pulled her coat tightly around her to protect herself from the chill coming off the lake. Dodging behind the crime lines, she found a uniform and asked him where Captain Running Wolf was. He kindly pointed out a tall, slender Native American man in discussion with two detectives, who were standing over a prone figure covered by a blue tarp. An M.E. in Day-Glo coveralls leaned down and lifted the tarp off the body, revealing a woman in her mid to late forties, whose flesh was swollen and discoloured.

Another forensic worker flashed a picture, and the first pulled the tarp back down. Clarice swallowed, and then pressed on, navigating the muddy grass over to the captain.

"Captain Running Wolf? Hi, I'm Investigator Clarice Starling," she held out her hand. The captain shook it warmly.

"I'm glad you could come on such short notice, Investigator. We pulled her out of the water just an hour ago after some kids spotted her floating near the shore." He was clearly a softspoken man, but his tone conveyed authority.

"Any word on how long she's been in the water?"

"From the condition, they're saying two to six weeks, but we won't know anything until we get her down to the lab."

"May I have a look? I have a substantial background with forensics."

"Absolutely, Investigator."

Clarice accepted a pair of gloves from an M.E. and bent down to lift the tarp. The stench wasn't as bad as she had expected: perhaps it was the cold. The woman's flesh had been punctured in many places, each set of punctures coming in twos, most of them centimetres apart. The purple and yellow discolourations intensified the closer they got to the wounds.

"Captain Running Wolf? You may want to have a look at this."

The Captain bent down to look. Clarice pulled her miniature Mag-Lite out of her pocket and flicked it on, illuminating the punctures.

"I'm not an expert, but those punctures look at a lot like snake bites to me. They vary in size and shape."

"I'll be. I've never seen anything like it. Would you like to accompany us to the lab, Investigator? I'm going to assign Al-Hadir and Pasquale, I'm sure they'd appreciate your help. Unless you've already got plans, of course."

"No sir, I don't have any plans, and I'd definitely like to get a closer look at this."

The hospitality of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was a welcome relief compared to the typical hostility and blanket unhelpfulness that an FBI agent would normally have to endure from any American police department. Detective Ángel Al-Hadir was a charming Latino-Arab via Hastings Street. In addition to fluent Spanish and Arabic, Al-Hadir spoke Quebecois French and was working on his Chinese. Detective Marie-Louise Pasquale was a quiet Quebecois, who spoke rarely but with a heavy accent when she did. Her dark brown eyes were quick at catching details, and she could often be seen moving her lips to some unheard tune, reciting all the things in the vicinity. Despite this compulsive behaviour, her skills as an observer were indispensable. Coupled with Al-Hadir's charismatic interrogation skills, the Urban Homicide division had collared more murderers in the last five years than in the history of the department.

Clarice immediately liked them. Al-Hadir offered her the shotgun seat and buckled himself into the back of Pasquale's Saab convertible. She huddled down, pulling her coat tight around herself.

"Cold?" Al-Hadir inquired. "Hey, Pas?"

Pasquale made a humming noise, and flipped on the heat.

"Thanks. I've been living in New York, but from I'm from Virginia. Still not used to it."

"New York. The FBI, they stopped you looking for Hannibal Lecter, non? Is that why you left?" Pasquale recited, watching the road.

"I didn't know you guys followed those things." Clarice said, her eyebrows raised.

"Not everyone, just Pasquale. She makes it her business to know absolutely everything," Al-Hadir said affectionately.

"Knowledge is power."

"_Oui, oui_."

"Okay, since you guys know so much about me, I get to ask you. Where'd you get your starts?"

"I had a degree in psychology, but I never had a chance to help real people, only stupid rich _débiles_. So I left to Montreal and went to the academy."

"Detective Al-Hadir?"

"Well, my dad was a Quebecois Arab, his parents came over late in the 30s. Mom moved to Vancouver like forty years ago from Colombia. I always wanted to be a tec, but I got top marks in linguistics and they kept telling me to be a social worker. I just jumped in feet first, and here I am."

"And what about you, Investigator Starling?" Pasquale asked as she drummed the steering wheel, waiting behind the coroner's van at a light.

"Not much I can tell you that you probably don't know already. Majored in psychology and criminology, did a bunch of forensics, got into Quantico."

"S'where all the business with Dr. Lecter started, isn't it?" Al-Hadir yawned, cracking his neck.

"Yes," Clarice said shortly. Al-Hadir toyed with an air pocket in the ceiling upholstery, and nodded, totally non-committal.

Ten minutes later, Pasquale pulled the car to a stop in front of a featureless grey building. The three investigators were making their way through the front entrance to sign in while the M.E.s were unloading the body on a gurney and wheeling it into the examination room.

Clarice was invited to hang up her things, and she did so. She checked her gun at the desk and followed the two detectives into the exam room.

The lab techs were taking samples as they entered. A tired looking black man made notes on a clipboard, pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Investigator Starling? Hi, I'm Dr. James Candalle, but you can just call me Jim, okay? Captain told me you wanted to have a shifty at the body."

"If you don't mind, sir. Before I start, any preliminary verdicts?"

Candalle leaned over the body, indicating with his pen.

"She's only been in the water one day, at the most, and dead for about that long, which doesn't explain this level of decay." The body was black in some areas, the flesh rotting off.

Clarice pulled a fresh pair of latex gloves and flipped out the trusty flashlight.

"You'd have to do some tests, but I think these are snakebites. Maybe different kinds."

"Prelim Toxicology is going to come back in about ten minutes, but I can forward some venom formulas for comparison."

"That would probably be a good idea."

"Snakes." Al-Hadir shuddered. "Was it the snakes that killed her, or did she drown?"

"Cause of death is drowning, but she was certainly suffering acute toxemia at the time."

Clarice looked into the dead woman's face. She looked peaceful. Slightly overweight, with dirty blonde hair. Gently, Clarice opened one of the women's eyes. Pale blue.

_Who are you?_

"ID just came back, Doc," one of the techs said as he burst into the room. "Blanch Landaugh. She's American, that's why it took so long. A visiting professor. She was supposed to be lecturing today at UBC. The zoology section."

"One for tomorrow, I think," Pasquale said briskly, accepting the hastily compiled folder.

"Tell you what. You three get home," Candalle suggested. "I'll send you the toxicology report tomorrow, and you can bring it to UBC and identify the venoms. Remember to watch yourselves. This one is going to be a real nuthouse mouse."

"Well, the best of them are," Clarice said dryly.

"Excuse me for saying so, but you'd know better than we would, Investigator Starling."

_Point taken, _Clarice thought.


End file.
